Still Family

My in-laws have the definition of a golden retriever/black cat relationship.

Every single word that comes out of Dave's mouth is a joke, and his broad smile and easygoing shrug toward life's challenges remind you that things might actually turn out okay.

Julia, a partner at her own law firm, enjoys foreign language mystery shows, cooking her weekly breakfast egg bites on Sundays, and updating the faithful analog calendar on the kitchen door. When Dave says something sarcastic (read: when Dave says anything), Julia rolls her eyes and makes sure everyone in the room knows that was a joke. (We knew.)

I think of Doug, Julia's dad, as one of my soulmates. A former French professor who grew up in the Democratic Republic of Congo, Doug's depth of knowledge and experience manifests in a quiet, thoughtful man with sparkling blue eyes. His everyday uniform of a T-shirt, button down, zip-up hoodie, and overcoat is the only sensible approach in North Carolina, the meteorological equivalent of a moody teenager.

Doug returned stateside for college, where he fell in love with his wife, Marilyn. She hand-wrote thank you cards in swoon-worthy cursive, played piano, and had a warm smile that melted your heart like butter (which was plentiful in her classic Southern cooking). I still crave Marilyn's mouthwatering chicken and dumplings, and her signature chocolate-espresso cake will forever be my preferred birthday treat.

I instantly fell in love with Marilyn's toothy grin, Kentucky drawl, and natural optimism. She passed away on Christmas a few years ago. I think about her and miss her quite frequently.

My former partner and I are amicably separated now, but we will always be family. And oddly enough, the month between when we decided to separate and when my mom drove her black Tacoma down I-81 to help me move out was a time that I will never forget. Somehow, we found joy in spending that time as a family, despite the sadness we all felt.

Most evenings after dinner, Julia, Doug and I would pull out our phones and compare our results on the Spelling Bee, one of the New York Times word games. With the dogs (Diego and Tibbers) cuddling up between us on the couch and Dave and my former partner working on a jigsaw puzzle in the corner, we would go into no-nonsense solving mode.

"How did I not get that?!"

"Is that even a word?"

"I swear I tried that! I must have mistyped."

"It's ridiculous that it doesn't accept that word."

Those nights after dinner at my in-laws' house were sacred to me. They were as rife with laugher as they were with the comfort of quiet togetherness. We looked up new words, we pet the dogs and noshed on post-dinner snacks and went on walks. We played Rummikub around the kitchen table and drank Constant Comment tea. In the midst of a marriage ending, we savored every second.

Marilyn and Doug gave me a book of poems by Joseph Mills once. One of my favorites, Aging, reads:

To speak of a wine's future

is to speak of our own desires.

How we hope as we age

that we'll become more

harmonous, less acidic,

that our tannins will mellow. We recognize that right now

we have a burst of flavor,

an energy, a liveliness,

but also a harshness

which later may soften

until we're more balanced,

more approachable,

easier to appreciate.

Hold onto us

we believe

we'll get better.

I believe we get better as we age. Shock and confusion and disappointment come with years and have the power to harden us, yes. But this family showed me that when things don't go the way you expected, sometimes you relinquish the sharpness of pride and ego to your younger self. And what you're left with is perhaps the most honest existence you've experienced.

The gentle indent where my wedding ring used to be has faded at this point, but I'm grateful that this family, these people I love, acknowledged the pain and gave it time to ripen into something softer and truer and, yes, maybe even better.